


Nonsense Verse

by wirclickwir



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Gen, pregame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 06:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14763987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wirclickwir/pseuds/wirclickwir
Summary: A chronicle of pregame Ouma Kokichi, in first person.





	Nonsense Verse

**Author's Note:**

> A short first chapter. This is my first published work, if you like it, or if you don't, please leave feedback!

The sky was an ugly shade of grey, too dark and too bright, like the inarticulate static a TV plays when you try to reach a channel that doesn’t exist. It spat warm water unevenly into the humid and heavy air, wetting the uniforms of us students who detachedly filed into the school. It’s one of those days where everything is the same temperature. If the weather is flavorless and boring, the school is even worse. I honestly don’t think I can see it any more. Once I walk in the door, it’s like the dull building around me fades into my peripheral vision, right along with all my boring classmates.  
I drift through my classes without any real awareness of what’s going on around me. This day really wouldn’t be notable in the least, and probably would’ve vanished entirely from my memory if it hadn’t been for one very unexpected and exciting lesson. I suddenly discovered that I am a poet.  
I always avoid conversations. Talking to people normally is stupid. It’s not enjoyable. But, you know, you can learn things. I don’t mean things about other people—gossip is such a bore. In your mind, everything is complex, since you know every little thing, and you end up somehow overlooking really glaring details in plain sight. Since conversation is simplified by nature, occasionally things will make themselves apparent. Like, apparently, there was some sort of consensus among my classmates that I wrote poetry. This wasn’t true at all, but considering I don’t talk to any of them, I guess they’ve gotta classify me somehow. During a partner activity in Literature, the girl I’d been paired with to analyze a poem said:  
“I didn’t notice that at all. Figures you’d be good at this, considering you write poetry.”  
“Yep,” I responded, “You know, once you start to do it yourself, the little things are just that much more obvious.”  
She said something about her friend telling her about my poetry. Anyway, for the rest of the day, I thought about it. Once people collectively believe something, it’s more or less the truth. I am, in my own way, a poet; only I demonstrate my art every minute, in all circumstances.  
What is my art? Lying. The art of deception. But I consider myself more of a conjuror of intangible objects. With slender, pale, virtually ethereal hands, I can produce new life from thin air. What you hold securely in your hands, I can swipe away, leaving behind a person lost and confused. Now you see it, now you don’t. People like to act like they have an integral disgust for lies. But don’t they all love fiction? Art, novels, TV shows. These things run the world as much as any president or dictator. Fiction is just a big, fancy word for lies. Without art, the crudeness of reality would be unbearable to any human. And like a work of art, I can weave with lies a character and world of much greater importance than otherwise.  
Who is Ouma Kokichi? Not an orphan boy attending Imperial High School, but a patchwork conglomeration of an entire cast of thrilling characters, all played by me, with special appearances from the ghosts and shadows of other souls. Here there is beauty, but most of all there is violence, gore, death, and suffering, so perfectly and poetically executed that it is breathtaking. Now, can you look at this and honestly say that you’d rather see reality?  
I keep to myself in class. Believe it or not, I’m actually pretty lonely. My classmates and day-to-day life aren’t remotely entertaining. I only have occasional opportunities to have fun messing with people. I mean, I have a couple lackeys at the orphanage who accompany me. We sneak out at night and run around the city like we own the place, role-playing and nicking things. That’s probably the only time I’m happy around here. I’m waiting patiently for an opportunity to really blossom. To really let myself free. College sounds like shit, and I don’t want a job. I don’t want to live in boring reality. I want to live where I belong- in a fictional world. If I can’t do that, what’s the point in being alive?


End file.
